Golden Moments in the Stream of Life
by JayJ1
Summary: A series of oneshots dedicated to exploring the complex, intense, strange, sometimes light, usually heavy and loaded, occasionally dark, relationship between Emma Swan and Mr. Gold/Rumpelstiltskin. Golden Swan. **Chapter 12 - Poetics: Dark eyes, colorful lies, and the way he sighs.
1. Curl

He misses her curls.

It's such an inconsequential thought even he doesn't quite understand where it comes from.

One moment Emma Swan is brazenly accusing him of murder, glaring at him and dismissing Belle's attempts at defending him, and the next he's thinking about her hair.

It's completely beside the point, and irrelevant to the enfolding events between them. But the thought comes and sticks to his mind.

And it dawns on him that it actually bothers him.

Because this straight, listless mess of blonde locks simply does not suit her. It reflects a side to her that seems flustered and wrong.

And it troubles him because this is not the woman he knows her to be.

As meaningless as they seem her curls are such an essential part of who Emma is that the absence of them is strangely jarring to him—like she's lost something he can't quite place. That element that completes her—makes her who she is.

The woman that was stubborn to a fault and unwavering in her beliefs. Who was strong, and determined, passionate and brave.

This girl seemed unsure and chaotic, flanked by her parents, as he gestured for her to follow him to the backroom while ordering Charming to go and fetch Pongo.

It's off putting and disappointing.

So when she falters, saying she can't control her own magic, it truly upset him.

It's why when he tells her, "Yes, you can," his tone is adamant and curt. It's also why it's laced with an undertone of encouragement.

Because he knows now that this Emma Swan was lost.

And she would need to find herself again.

She needed her curls back.

Author's Nots:

Hello all. So I've been contemplating trying to get back in to writing for a little while now—something I haven't done in a very long time—and this is my first go at it. Hope you enjoyed it. (It's a weird start, I know)

Golden Swan in my new and current obsession—even though I know my timing is less then ideal since this weeks episode will likely sink this ship once and for all—but I love them together, so screw it, I'm just gonna write them anyway.

I was partially inspired to venture back in to the world of writing by some of the amazing authors in the fandom like Ravenclaw992, Emma Swan, and BundyShoes (whose great series of oneshots gave me the idea to start off by writing my own collection of them)

Read their stuff, I'm not half as talented they are.


	2. Shot

She shot him.

In the shoulder.

To save Hook.

Rumpelstiltskin jerks back at the explosive impact, collapsing on the ground with a hard crack, as the sound from the gunshot and the clatter of his fallen cane echoes around him like a scathing laugh.

Belle cries out descending over him with a frantic combination of fear and concern rampant in her dazzling blue eyes.

The physical pain was excruciating. The mental would be numbing.

He hears her foot steps and glimpses blonde hair but he doesn't catch sight of Emma's face. So he has no idea what her reactions are towards her own violent act against him.

He needs to see her face.

Rumpelstiltskin manages to sit up, barely. Belle tears off a piece of her skirt and uses it to press over his bloody wound. It burns. He ignores it, and ignores her. His attention directed elsewhere.

His eyes, dark and inscrutable, watch the enfolding of event before him.

Emma was helping Hook.

"What have you done?" He seethed, staring furiously at her back.

"I warned you that I'd shoot you if you didn't stop," she says dismissively, her attention never deviating from the beaten pirate. Hook seems to be angry at her as well. He keeps slapping her hands away; rejecting her obvious attempts at assisting him.

Clearly frustrated, Emma finally snaps something back at him. Rumpelstiltskin can't quite make it out but whatever she's said seems to have persuaded Hook to calm down and let her help him.

Pulling the pirate to his feet Emma forces Hook's arm over her shoulder. Her other arm encircles his waist.

It breaks something inside of him as he watches the pair stumbles past, making their way off the boat, and away from him.

Emma doesn't even look at him.

Yet Rumpelstiltskin can't seem to look away from her.

It's Hook who does looks over at him.

Whatever the pirate sees in his face in that instance sparks a light in the man's eyes and causes him to smirk smugly and openly at his fallen nemesis—suggesting a victory that is not yet apparent to him

Belle assures him that everything will be alright. He wants to believe her. But it disheartens him in a way that makes his blood boil-that Emma could hurt him just to protect Hook.

She'd made him the villain here. And Hook some sort of victim.

It felt like a betrayal. It felt familiar.

He realizes then what Hook had seen—what had made the pirate so damn pleased.

And he wants it gone. Needs her gone from him.

So he lets it pour out of him.

Any love he'd had left for Emma spilled out from his body with the blood that now flowed sullenly from the wound she'd inflicted upon him.

And pour and pour it did.

When Rumpelstiltskin finally does heal himself, he holds Belle's hand, and convinces himself that Emma Swan is now as meaningless to him as that decaying pool of blood.

Because if he doesn't; he'll hurt her.

Because if she can break his heart, he's afraid, he'll crush hers.

Author's Notes:

First, I want to apologize for any unintentional spoilers. I honestly did not think. So I just wanted to give any readers a heads up that my stories in this series have the potential of having spoilers for current season two events. Please, please tread carefully. The last thing I'd want to do is ruin any surprises for you guys.

Second, this and the first story were the only two I had complete. Everything else is a mess of tidbits and partially written nonsense. Updates will not come so quickly. Sorry.

I appreciate all the views and reviews I've received already. Thank you.


	3. Believe

When she was a child Emma dreamed of the mouth of Hell

She stands at the brink; stares inside. It's black and endless and has teeth, like dark rocks, that are sharp and jagged.

It's horrible and frightening and she wants to run, and run, and run away.

But she can't. Emma's here, she's always here.

Like Destiny.

Emma doesn't like that word. Sounds like shattered dreams, it tastes of bitterness, smells like lonely nights, and feels too heavy a weight on her shoulders. And it looks like this.

Like staring into the mouth of Hell

And inside lives the Devil—eyes glowing like gold and false hope as he cackled and twitched in unhinged and heartless delight.

Emma knows he wants her misfortune, her cruel fate, because it's all part of his plan.

It was a masterful game—filled with special pieces—and she was to be his Queen. He would tell her over and over again. As if it was the most important piece. The one she should remember.

He needed Emma to break.

Then he beckoned and cooed at her wildly, sometime even tenderly, and tells her that she belongs to him. That her Mommy and Daddy had forfeited her life to him.

"But I don't have a Mommy and Daddy," she would tell him, thinking herself so clever—how could they have given her away if they were never real. Mommy and Daddy only lived in her fairytales. And you weren't supposed to believe in those.

He would laugh at her foolish tragedy. But it was an empty and hollow sound.

"It was a bargain, you see—a deal." He tells her, weaving his tale like a masterful puppeteer, his eyes twinkling. "They wanted to save themselves. To keep on living in their shiny happy world full of heroes and love, burning light and blinding goodness. And so they offered their golden girl's name to the monster that spins and sealed her fate. Destined her to be pulled and threaded by his hands and his darkness."

But Emma doesn't like this story. She tells herself not to trust him, and to never believe it. It's another fairytale and you shouldn't believe in those.

That's her strength, and her protection.

It makes him angry. But he's trapped and can't reach her.

So she wakes up.

But the dreams come and come and come until one day she says her name and sets the Devil free.

And then he makes her believe.

**Author's Notes:**

Hope you enjoyed.

I don't know where this came from…it just sort of popped in to my head and demanded I write it. It seems my muse is going through a dark phase at the moments so I'm struggling to write something a little more lighthearted and upbeat. I'm working on it though.


	4. One Day

When Rumpelstiltskin is still a youthful, passionate, newly married man with a child soon on the horizon he dreams about a girl.

In his dream, he comes upon her sitting in a field of white and yellow flowers (Baby Breaths and Forget-Me-Nots, he will one day come to know them as) wearing a simple dress made from plain linen and a delicate crown of blossoms weaved through her hair. She is humming softly to herself, toying with the flowers nearest to her absently, and seemingly oblivious to his presence.

He stares openly at her; dazed by such pure, unassuming beauty.

It is a dangerous proposition.

Abruptly, he looks away as his thoughts begin to wonder in to darker places.

It unsettles him

He then notices that behind her, distantly, there stands a majestic castle beyond anything he's ever seen before. It is an opulent and picturesque sight to behold; a palace living in a world filled with grand stories of great loves and devastating tragedies.

A place, he thinks, destined to be ravaged by darkness and broken to pieces.

The humming stops.

He stills as she looks up at him. Her loveliness and sorrow arrests him and like a charm brings him back to the light.

Rumpelstiltskin wakes up with a start and a chill, looks to his slumbering wife beside him, and prays that he never dreams of such beauty and sadness again.

But the dream continues to come.

After the first encounter he chooses to be distant and evasive—unsure of the meaning or the rationale for such a dream to plague him over and over again—so he does not dare speak to the girl, nor engaged her in any form or manner. He remained impartial and skeptical of the purpose and consistency of her presence.

But the more frequently he dreamt of the girl with flowers entwined in her hair, of her simplicity and calmness and of those persuasive eyes and eloquent lips, the more he becomes drawn to her.

Each dream, every new but not new encounter with her, he begins to pay a little more attention. Starts to memorize a new detail about her. It is here, watching her, when Rumpelstiltskin learns how to truly look at someone.

It becomes habitual and, with her, obsessive.

The first thing he knows of her is that she is vivid and golden yet secluded and cagey. There is an innate air of melancholy that surrounds her but there is also a light to her that whispers of hope and goodness that could steal his heart and threatens his soul.

Her hair, when he becomes attentive to it radiance, is too vibrant and so bright and he swears he feels a tingle in his hands at the thought of guiding his skilled fingers through each strand as if they were threads of spun gold.

Her skin, a temptation to be toyed with, is flawless and pure and of an ivory paleness; charming and snow white.

Then her eyes are devoured by his own; addictive and so green. They glimmer with an ethereal sort of radiance as if blessed by magic. Yet they shine with a heavy burden of prophecy. He can see stories in those eyes.

Rumpelstiltskin catches sight of her smile last; a consequence due to it rarity.

It is a complex sort of smile. Fleeting and layered, obscure yet challenging and quite impish—a smile like a highly guarded secret. One he greedily wishes he could manipulate to his benefit. For if he knew how to use such a power to his advantage he would make her smile for him endlessly.

It is only after he has memorized every detail of her, and when cowardice finally yields to curiosity, that he begins to entertain the notion of speaking to her.

There is only one question on Rumpelstiltskin's mind and on his lips. And he asks it over and over again.

But she only ever shakes her head, her delicate curls sway gracefully around her, and answers in a song that dances in his ears all through his waking hours.

"What is your name?" He asks her every time.

Her answer is always the same, "I will tell you one day."

The more he asks her. The more he persists—the desire to know pushing at his soul desperately— the more his little life with his wife, and his son, and his shattered spirit and broken limp, begins to crack and falls to pieces one by one.

Then Rumpelstiltskin loses his wife, and lies to his son.

"Let me find you." He asks, pleads, instead.

His boy should have a mother and he some goodness in his life again. The shadows are overwhelming him—cowardice has become a constant and he needs her strength to keep him from their lure and black promises.

When she looks at him her eyes are compassionate and knowing but unwavering in their defeat. And he sees then that she will not be able to stop the darkness from claiming him. And so she says,

"The pain and the rage will come and destroy what you are. But do no fear, one day, I will find you and what you have lost. "

But her answer instead makes him angry and bitter—one day, it's always one day—and so he lashes out.

"I love you. I want you now. I want you real. And I want you always. If I had the power, I would make it so." He knows he would never have her, not while his is like this; cowardly and so broken. But there is a dangerous honesty to his words. Power, if he had power.

She stares at him curiously, strangely, as if his declaration of love truly confuses her, "but I am not your true love." She tells him firmly, as if to persuade him away from such a colorful idea. "Your love will be a rosy beauty, dressed in blue, and as sweet as bells. She will chip your guarded heart and your devotion and passions for her will be beastly."

"Then why do you haunt me—consume and torture me like a curse?"

"To one day save you. Do you not yet see?" She smiles, it is lovely and sad. Burdened. "I am your savior, Rumpelstiltskin"

Then he becomes the Dark One and he loses her like he loses his son.

And he wants her back. The desire is as ruthless and cunning as his need to find his beloved boy.

So when the magic and power whisper their secrets, and teach him how to read his dreams, Rumpelstiltskin manipulative and destructive machinations begin.

Deal after deal after deal.

His dark power tells him to want what he wants. To make it so, like he told her he would once upon a time. And he finds it eventually. Finds a way to make her real and get his son back. His lost dreams had given him clues. And so he toys and plays with the enchanted world. Then finds a truly loving pair of heroes while he guides and seduces the poor evil queen with shattering rage and despairing darkness.

It makes him giddy with a sinister, anticipating delight.

It takes time, and tricks, and clever words but he is patient. Her golden memory brings out what little remains of the virtues within him. Eventually, once everything is as he intends for it to be Rumpelstiltskin plays the fool for the princess of cinder's risky and silly trap and, in doing so, finally learns his savior's name.

He stills, like he had done so long ago when she'd first set her green eyes upon him, as her soon to be cursed mother, the fairest of them all, utters the name of the little girl growing so bravely inside her womb.

That lovely and all-consuming name makes him feel whole.

Greedily, he takes it and writes it down again and again—precisely, uniquely, and with unyielding affection.

Then Rumpelstiltskin has a dream, with a roll of parchment crushed in his hand, and sees her once more.

Boldly he takes her in his arms, as he had always desired and intended to do, and binds himself mercilessly to her bittersweet lips; the ones that will say her name and set him free.

His Emma tastes like real hope. And he knows now not to fear. For she will find him. And be his always.

Then together they will find his lost boy.

Like she had said she would.

One day.

**Author's Notes:**

Yay! Another story complete and posted. I'm actually shocked I got this one done so quickly. I was struggling and struggling with it and then suddenly it just came together. Yesterday ended up being a really inspiring day of writing (and a horribly unproductive day at work.) that probably won't happen again anytime soon.

So further stories are not likely to pop up in the daily fashion they have been so far—I'm actually a really slow writer. But right now every time I seem to finish a story I want to post it right away instead of giving myself some time in between updates to have working space. I'm just so excited.

I wanted to try to write this story with more flowery descriptions—to practice getting better at it. I just hope it worked. I also tried to be a little clever here and there with my descriptive wording. I hope that worked too.

For all you who have read my stories this far; thanks so much for reading. I would love some feedback but I appreciate all of you just taking the time to read my stuff. It means a lot.


	5. Between

**Minor 2x14 spoilers:**

They had come together after a threat, a challenge, and a daring impulse.

And then it was there—between them—and neither had really known how to handle that.

The thing was, they were both too damaged, and bitter, and guarded and too lost in past heartaches—it defined them in all the wrong ways—to ever let themselves believe in the possibility of anything good coming out of it

So they each told themselves it wasn't anything beyond what it was; physical release, temporary distractions, and meaninglessly fleeting moments.

And it worked, in a way that didn't really work at all, because to them love—real love—were two very different things.

He wanted allusions, and guarded happiness. The beauty of love; which was gentle and devoted and was not tainted or tempted by the darkness. And one that he could keep with him and never has to fear its loss.

She preferred honestly and, with it, harsh passions; reckless and unyielding. For her heart to be stolen by it. To truly be able to feel it and know it's there. She wanted a love that could make her fearless and safe. And that would never, ever abandon her.

Again, this is what they told themselves they wanted.

But what they didn't seem to acknowledge was that they were just hiding the important words amongst all those superficial ones. They used words that they could hold on to, and cling to, because they thought it would protect them. In the end, their hesitations came down to two little facts.

He feared loss.

And she feared being abandoned.

It was as simple as that.

And yet, regardless of their futile excuses, neither could quite let the other go. So it became an endless cycle of back and forth, give and takes, wanting and having, lies and truths.

Love and hate.

And that was before things got convoluted and so much more complicated between them—a real series of predicaments.

A curse broken, a family reunited, a true love returned, a trip home for mother and daughter, a heroes' triumphant return with some villains in tow, a full-time parenting gig, a setup, an act of revenge, a loss of memories, a deal forcibly honored, and a trip to the big apple.

And one revelation that neither of them, not even him with his cursed gift, could have foreseen.

A family affair, if ever there was one.

As they stood by that window, both beyond psychologically drained and emotionally exhausted, they shared a simple yet heated look and knew.

That it was done—between them—because it had to be.

And for two people who'd d told themselves that it had never really been about love at all.

It still felt a little too much like heartbreak when it was over.

**Author's Notes:**

Another depressing story completed. It seems I'm incapable of writing these two as happy at the moment.

I wasn't originally planning to but I decided to sit and write today. I wanted to try just writing freely and not nitpick on the editing process and this is the result of that. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. There's probably a bunch of mistakes but the point of writing these oneshots was to practice various styles and processes of writing. I just hope I've been somewhat successful.

For this story, I started working on just before Manhattan and then completed it as and after I watched it. So the flow of the story took an unexpected shift at the end (I actually intended for a happier ending—I know, shocker). I'm not sure if it worked out too well the way it turned out and a small part of me wants to write more for it but there's a bigger part that feels it's finished. – I listened to that one, hence the posting.

Thanks again for reading. To my reviewers; you're the best. To all you readers; you're pretty great too.

P.S- Happy stories are coming...hopefully.


	6. Words

**Minor spoilers for 2x14**

They were sitting together in the back of a yellow cab.

And Emma wasn't really good with words.

They had only just landed in Manhattan and were now on route to the address Gold had specified to the driver. Henry, in his excitement, had insisted that he be allowed to sit in the front, to see all there was to see, while Gold and Emma sat in the back, nether particularly interested in taking in the sights. She'd already been to New York once before and Gold, well, he had other things on his mind.

Her green eyes fall on his injured hand, surveying the bruised knuckles, as she sits next to him.

Emma doesn't really understand this need she has to make him feel better. All day, she's been trying to tell him the words she thinks he wants to hear. But, no matter what she says, Gold seems to shrug off all her attempts at comforting him and instead pointedly tries to ignore her.

It seemed the right words were beyond her capabilities.

Emma dealt in actions, not words. Words could be done up, made to look prettier than they were. Words were lies—white, gray, black—and they were always just, at their core, a subtle form of manipulation. A way of eliciting the response you desire from the person you're saying them to. They had been used against her too often and Emma had spent her whole life being disappointed and betrayed by words. She didn't trust them, and didn't know how to say them in the right way. For all their necessity and purposes, words were essentially meaningless to her.

Actions were what mattered to Emma because action were honest—a bare reflex, impulsive, natural, brutal, purposeful—they always, one way or another, told some form of the truth, even if you didn't always know what that truth was.

Actions were simple.

Yet Emma knew that doing something as small as touching Gold's hand would be a mistake. He was too on edge. Even if the intent was to comfort him Gold would never acknowledge the gesture like that. He'd see it as his weakness made apparent and would likely lash out in some form or manner.

She knew he preferred words, and guarded himself with them. Emma supposes, for him, there was a safety to words—they could protect and hurt and allowed one to remain distant—and he seemed to know how to control them, had a knack for them. He understood the power of the right words; how to twist their purpose if needed or when to simply take them as is.

Words were the way to Gold.

"Things might not go the way you want them to," she blurts out. He tersely looks at her with the annoyance he's been wearing on his face all day but there's also a hint of curiosity at her blunt choice of words. He looks at Emma silently yet expectant.

"I just want you to be prepared for things to not go the way you're hoping they will," she said, anxious and simply saying whatever comes to her, "family reunions have the tendency to get complicated."

Gold remained silently stilted yet his eyes were observant of her; the intensity in his gaze had heightened. Encouraged, Emma continued.

"I know you're…nervous, and you're also probably not in the mood to hear anymore of me trying to be helpful, but I just want to make sure you're in a place where you can handle whatever is about to go down between you and your kid." Emma paused, trying to push the right words forward delicately "Because the reality is, it may not go well. And with everything that's already happened…you need to be ready to deal with that."

She was surprised to see that her words were having an affect; one that didn't involve immediate, or coarse, irritation. Instead, Gold appeared to be contemplating them; a question seemingly forming on the tip of his tongue. Patiently, Emma watched him but remained silent. It was uncommon to see him at such a loss. It humanized him in a way that fascinated her.

Gold hesitated, perhaps trying to decide how to word his question, before summoning up the nerve and simply asking her, "and what do you suppose I can do—to prevent such an outcome?"

"Nothing…" Emma shook her head, blonde hair twirling around her, as she answered earnestly, "there's nothing you can do other than accept the possibility that it'll probably go badly. You can hope for the best but you need to prepare yourself for the worst."

He nods, taking her words in further. Emma pursed her lips, having voiced her opinions and concerns yet not wanting to leave the moment, or Gold, in such a state of unease, she adds,

"Sometimes these sorts of things have to fall apart before they can get better. So don't let it crush you, or dishearten you, if your reunion with your son doesn't go the way you hope it will. It might take time but I truly believe it'll all work out in the end."

"Why are saying this to me? What's the point, your gain from it?" he asked suddenly, flustered by her kind words and suspicious of their intent, of her sincerity.

Emma offered him a small but honest smile, "because no matter what happens I want—I _need—_you to be okay."

Gold appeared taken aback by her words.

Then he looked at her softly; an intimate suggestion of gratitude.

The candid words she'd given him didn't feel like much, at least to Emma, but to Gold they seemed enough.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, he returned her smile.

**Author's Notes:**

This is first part of a two part story. I debated posting it all together but then decided to break it into two since they also work as stand alone stories as they are. I'm still touching up the second half so the update should happen later on tonight, or if not, then it will be up by tomorrow.

Thanks again to all you taking the time to read my work.

And to my two reviewer—BundyShoes & la-stella-immortale —thank you so much for your support and comments. You keep me inspired :)


	7. Actions

**Minor Spoilers for 2x14**

They were sitting together in the back of a yellow cab, again.

And Gold wasn't really good with actions.

They were heading to the hotel he had prearranged in case their search extended for a few days. And for some reason, beyond even his understanding, Emma had elected to join him. Even against Bealfire's concerned insistence that she need not go anywhere with him and that she was welcome to stay.

But Emma had simply shaken her head; declining his son's offer.

It was Henry who had enthusiastically demanded he be allowed to stay behind; wanting to spend as much time as he could with his newly discovered father. And Gold had seen Emma's resignation then, with the curt quiet nod of her head, conceding to her son's request and allowing him to do so. It seemed, at that point, words had completely abandoned her and Emma was now functioning on basic and numb reflexes.

His dark eyes regarded her quietly, studying her, as he sits next to her.

There's a part of him that knows he is accountable for the state she is currently in. Emma being here had been his doing. He is to blame for it completely. Still, he doesn't quite understand this need that comes over him to offer her comfort. Gold had tried doing so earlier by taking charge of the unresponsive blonde, despite his son's obvious disdain, as they had stepped out of the apartment. Guiding Emma gently, with a hand on the small of her back, they had walked from the apartment, down the hall, out the front doors of the building, and in to the cab he had hailed down for them. Gold had thought, after his hostile behavior towards her earlier, that she would have appreciated the sentiment of his gesture.

But Emma remained passive and solemn, her stance dull, and her eyes unusually vacant. The events and revelations of the day had taken its toll on all of them but it seemed Emma had been particularly devastated and overwhelmed by them.

And it appeared he had absolutely no talent for kind acts.

He dealt in words, not actions. Like magic, words were a crutch. They had become a precaution, a mask, and a fancy display of theatrics that he had perfected over the years. Actions were different; they exposed vulnerabilities and exploited you in all the ways you wanted to hide and keep safe. Action spoke louder than words and that was always his problem with them. In the past, every time Gold had chosen to act, time after time, it had only ever led to one thing; loss and destruction. His actions had been his downfall. They had cost him everything.

Words were what mattered to Gold—they had always benefited him—once he'd understood that their meaning was always up for interpretation. There intent and uses were in a constant state of flux. And it, conveniently, gave him the advantage he wanted in almost any situation—there was no single truth or function to a spoken word, no matter how or why one chose to say it. But words also had a purpose. When said, they always held value.

Words had complexity and depth.

But he knew Emma preferred actions over words, trusted them more than anything else. Gold couldn't use words with her, not now, not after using them so often to hurt—manipulate, threaten—her. She wouldn't really know how to listen to them from him. Too weary from their constant deceptions to allow herself to even entertain the idea of sincerity. Any words he spoke to her right now would be considered meaningless. Nothing he could say would change that.

Actions were the way to Emma.

And so, purely on a whim, Gold snatches Emma's hand in his own. Her head snaps towards him as he does so; her eyes sparked lively with questioning. He chooses to ignore her. Instead, Gold deftly considers the warmth and the fragile quality of her hand in his. Slowly, unconsciously, he traces his thumb over her palm soothingly; his touch subtle yet attentive.

There must have been a part of Emma that was still weary of him and his callous behavior towards her today because she quickly tries to steal back her hand. Yet, despite her feeble attempts, Gold's grip remains firm; refusing to yield.

She stares plainly at him, her body tense, breathing slowly. Clearly, Emma remains dubious of his actions; unsure how to react to them, perhaps even on edge, due to the unpredictable nature of his temper.

Still, Gold's eyes remain absently fixated on her hand as the impulse and need to continue trying to calm her encourages him further. Hesitantly, he raises it up and towards him. Ever so slowly, Gold kisses it, brushing his lips against her knuckles. Unintentionally, he savors the heated sensation of having her skin against him.

His considerate yet achingly sensual touch seems to have the desired effect on her as Emma's tension and doubt finally eases away from her. She leisurely begins to settle down; her body relaxing and brushing against his as she leaned back.

Then, once he had indulged himself of her, Gold simply guides her hand back down to rest against his thigh as his other hand falls upon them; effectively trapping and cradling her hand in both of his. It was a clear indication that he had no desire or intention of letting it go for the remainder of the cab ride.

Emma looked taken aback yet relieved by his actions.

Then she tightens her hand around Gold's.

His genuine act of consoling her had not seemed like much, at least not to Gold, but to Emma it felt like enough.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, they finally allowed themselves to take comfort in one another.

**Author's Notes:  
**

Part two done. Hope you enjoyed it. Sorry it ended up taking a little longer to complete and post then I had thought.

I tried playing with parallels here. There's just so many layers to these two characters that I love exploring and writing about-there similarities and differences-and the complex nature of their relationship and I hope I managed to tap in to that in this story (and hopefully, to a degree, all my stories)

Thanks again for all your reviews and support.

Lots of love!


	8. Poison

**Minor Spoilers for 2x15**

* * *

They're having a moment.

He's dying, and still, they're having one of their moments.

It's how these things go with them; complicated and too layered in meaning for ether of them to fully decipher or comprehend. Yet it's there. And they are always victims to it. It's repetitive, yet unavoidable.

He's struggling with it.

Emma is sitting beside him. Gold finds it difficult to breath. She is as suffocating to him as the poison in his veins. It bothers him, having her so close, because he doesn't mind it at all.

He shouldn't, but he does. It's an endless cycle sort of thing. He's not really making any sense.

Gold blinks twice. Than blinks a third time.

He can't think straight. Hook's deadly toxin is having the strangest effect on him. And Emma is still too close—that's not helping ether.

Shoulders are touching and she's invaded his personal space too easily and too brazenly. As if she belongs there. It's a comfort that shouldn't be there. Not from Emma, at least. Because it means she's slipped in and made herself at ease, at home, in a place she didn't, nor shouldn't, fit in to.

He blinks again. Keeps his eyes closed this time. Breathing is becoming a problem.

Gold wonders if Emma is a poison—to him—for she is consuming and ravaging him from within. Making his blood curl and his mind crumble and blur just as effectively as the one that is literally and currently flowing inside of him.

He shouldn't be surprised. His want of her had never been pure and gentle. Or even kind. It was jolting and painful—he always knew it would hurt. Gold had wanted her anyways. And now look at him.

He's projecting. He does that often.

'She's pretty,' Gold thinks in his haze, 'she's pretty and she glows.'

He wants to touch her—intimately, meaningfully, in a way that matters—but he can't, he knows he mustn't, and that makes him want it even more.

But there are too many sons in the room. It makes things bright and real and heated. And it's made these urges and desires too complicated and strictly forbidden.

Yet Gold recalls that there was a time, brief and familiar, where it wasn't and they had both been swayed by it and had indulged themselves.

It had been good.

Gold remembers, and can almost feel, the ghost of Emma's kiss against his lips. Remembers how he had tilted back his head, and how she had leaned into him and over him. And Gold had slipped his hand behind her neck and forced her close. He didn't let her go. Not then, at least.

He never thought he would.

But he did. He let go. It shouldn't have been that easy.

Gold's breathe catches at the memory. It tightens his insides. Maybe that's the poison. He can't be too sure anymore. He tries to focus but his mind continues to ponder and soon it wonders away from him.

Can one miss something they had never truly had? It seems pointless to do so. And yet, here he is.

What does he want?

Gold can hears bells in the distance but they're faded and echoing in his mind like broken glass. He doesn't like the sound of it. He wants to see green instead and so he turns and stares into Emma's eyes intently. It's harder then it seems.

Emma is saying something to him.

It takes a second for him to catch on.

She's looking at him purposefully and asking him to trust her and he's considering it; only because it's her. His life in Emma's hands…seems reasonable enough.

The poison is clearly getting to him. It's breaking him down.

Emma wants him to trust her. He used to want the same thing from her. It didn't work out. And this is how their story goes. The moral is trust. The foundation is lies. Do they or don't they. They're never on the same page.

Yet, despite this, Gold knows Emma can protect him, and could save him. She already has—proven she's capable of it. Gold likes this quality about her. She's reliable.

But then she throws the word family at him and Gold finds himself instinctively flinching—a reflex, thankfully, hidden amongst his already shaken and crumbling body for her to notice it.

And then Emma is leaning in closer. Waiting for him to tell her something important, Gold assumes.

He's not quite there yet. Other thoughts have preoccupied him.

Like family and Emma's body. These are two things that conflict and don't suit their circumstances.

Emma is not his family. Her body was pressed against his, once. It doesn't belong anywhere else. Not under the label of daughter-in-law, despite what he tells her. He knows, she knows, he doesn't mean it. Gold just wants his son back and so he uses what he can to get her to do what he wants. Emma knows this too.

Family—it's a concept that has not really worked out for him. He thinks Emma may like it. And that's why it works against her. But he doesn't care for what it's done to her. Her family has ruined her in a way; made her as faulty and predictable as them. They make her think she's not as damaged as she is anymore.

They always had that in common between them—being irrecoverable flawed—and Gold doesn't want to lose that correlation he has with her.

Gold can't seem to stop thinking about certain things.

Like Emma sighing against his ear. Not now, of course, but back then. Her heated breath tickles his skin; back then it did and right now he's sure it does too. It seems Gold's mind is playing tricks on him. The past and present have begun to dance and swirl around him. The flow and colors are awkward yet spellbinding. And Gold wants to follow along. Fall in to the sweet embrace of her memory gliding against him.

He knows the right steps.

But Emma is actually, and just, staring at him. So Gold tries to stare back. He's contemplating about the wrong things. He needs to stop. But it seems strange to Gold to think there was a time when the animosity between them had chilled and allowed such a heated spark to erupt. And then Gold thinks, maybe, he doesn't like how it ended. And, maybe, he wants it back.

Magic could fix that. Magic could fix everything.

There's an idea.

Gold could make them all forget.

Use a spell and make them forget this connection that binds them. Sever the child, his grandson, from their minds. It was an ideal scenario. Gold could rid himself of the boy fated to undo him and take Emma for himself and, perhaps, down the line, he could even gain back his son.

It would simplify things so much—the thought of it was truly tempting. His mind, under the thrall of this poison, is being vivid and very persuasive.

Henry could even be replaced, in time, Gold tells himself.

Emma's body and family. It made more sense to him this way.

Alas, these sorts of schemes would have to wait. First things first, Gold needed to get back to Storybrooke. Gain his power back and not die in the process of doing so.

But Gold feels the abrupt and burning sensation of searing pain course through him; vicious and raw. And thinks he may be grasping on false hope. This vindictive poison of Hook's was working quickly. Gold knew he would not last much longer; a few hours at most.

He needs a distraction. To ease his mind away from the layers of tearing hurt clawing and spinning inside of him.

Gold quickly becomes aware of Emma's hand on his hand and of her fingers brushing against his face. It's confusing him. One is corporal, the other is an illusion. He's sure of that at least. But the reality between the two is blurring and becoming lost to him.

Which would he prefer?

Gold can't choose. So instead he tells Emma what she wants to hear. He whispers in her ear where to find his precious dagger.

Tick tock goes the clock.

She then moves away from him. Stands and makes a phone call. She's talking to her father and tells him where to find it. Gold instantly regrets telling her his secret. It was for Emma to have, not for them to take.

He knows this will not end well. The false prince and the runaway princess who she calls her parents are too good for their own good. Cora will find a way to best them, if she hasn't already.

Cora had been the ideal pupil, after all—perceptive, cunning, and eager in her ruthlessness—she knows what it takes to win. It's what he liked most about her. And the thing he thoroughly loathed about her. They'd had a bitter and complicated relationship. But he'd won in the end. That was what mattered.

Emma is standing a small distance from him. Yet, despite this, Gold swears he can feel her pressed firmly alongside the length of him. In his growing delirium he is succumbing to the temptation of his memories. Even in Gold's disintegrating mind Emma still moves against his body enticingly. Soothing and adoring him. Her warm lips are against his moist cheek. Her cool hands are running roughly through his damp hair. Gold begins to lose his grip with consciousness.

He thinks if this is his prelude to death—Emma his and comforting him—then perhaps it was not all that bad.

Gold could even welcome it.

There's a light tap against his face; not painful but its suddenness jars him and snaps him back to the present. His drowsy eyes become sharp and focused but he is quickly blinded by gold.

Emma, real and scented in spices, is hovering over him. Her green eyes shine with concern and her long hair is spilling around them carelessly. She's telling him something—explaining their plan, no doubt—but he can barely comprehend her words. He's weary and weak. Emma notices this and so slaps his face again gently. It helps. She leans in a little closer.

"Stay with me," she mutters softly. Then steps back and turns away.

Gold watches silently as Emma walks out the door with his son in tow and thinks, 'if only I could.'

It's a fitting end to another one of their moments.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Do you know it actually took me this long to figure out how to insert a horizontal line between my notes and my stories-I'm so dumb sometimes-I'll edit previous chapter eventually because things like not having separating lines actually really annoys me and I'm glad I figured it out. Yes, weird things irritate me.

Anyways...finally another story done. I think some of my momentum has dwindle and its making it harder to write. The words just don't want to come out-perhaps, I'm trying to rush them and push them forward but I think apart of me is afraid if I don't update consistently this series will fall in to obscurity.

This story was a fun challenge cause I was going for messed up, deep, and not all there randomness. The last few episode have really highlighted, for me at least, how off his rocker Gold/Rumple is and I wanted to tap in to that. I also added the extra dose of poison induced delirium to the mix-because tricky minds and hallucinations are always a good time. It was a lot of fun to write (hence the length)...and I tried not to go in to a crazy dark place with this one but I think there are some darkish cracks that slipped through (FYI- I don't hate Henry but do despise how the writers have used him this season to manipulate his way in to getting what he wants and letting him get away with being a brat.)

If you, my dear reader, have made it this far please know I adore you and appreciate you taking the time to read my stories (and my notes). You are wonderful. And special. And I just wanted you to know that. XOXO

My reviewers and followers-thanks for the support (Especially you BundyShoes, whose kinds words and stories continue to inspire me) I really do appreciate you all, and love that you've taken the time to let me know you enjoy my work and that, in its own little way, it matters

Thanks!


	9. Story

**Very minor spoilers for 2x16**

* * *

There's a story between them.

It started with a dress and ended in a kiss.

Emma supposes it sounds kind of like a fairytale.

But it's not—those had happy endings and happily ever afters—and this…

This was just a story.

One that was plain and simple but real and maybe, at the time, just a little bit cheery and hopeful. In hindsight, it could be construed as a tad delusional, and rather conveniently, full of too many plot holes to make any sense. Eventual character developments had also played its part in its downfall.

But like any story—it did have its moments. Good and bad. Emma tries to focuses on the bad most of the time because its helps but, occasionally, the good slips in and reminds her that it was there too.

In the end, it was a fairytale that really ruined it—several, actually—and Emma can't help but reflect on the irony of that.

But now wasn't the time to be analyzing the text. Things were happening. Emma needed to focus and play her part for them.

They're in the backroom of his pawnshop—Gold, Neal, and Emma currently—biding their time until the epic climax. It's a big deal. Events have been building towards it. So the time has come for the inevitable showdown.

Yet, regardless of the outcome, Emma knows that things have already been irreversibly altered and changed. It's made her feel impatient and tense. All she really wants to do is turn the page, move things forward, and get past this part.

But right now they're stuck and forced to wait.

Emma's absently fiddling with a book when Gold says he needs to make a phone call. The pretty name he chimes through his labored breathes has Neal looking to her for an explanation. She gives it, brief and to the point—her style—his girlfriend—while obliging the now powerless and dying man's wish. Emma dials the number quickly and passes over the phone to Gold.

Their hands touch momentarily. There's nothing figurative about it. A touch is just a touch now. Emma listens to the conversation, though, because she's inherently nosy, she tells herself.

It's a good speech—it's Gold's dramatic monologue to his lady love—so it's flowery and full of those pure and violet ideals.

Emma thinks it's a little out-of-character.

But she gets it.

Gold needed to talk the only person in the world who had and could truly love him (or so he thinks) and who had believed that there was good in him (again, a misconception) and all that pretty and tacky poetry found in generic romance novels.

Emma can't really appreciate this version of Gold.

He seems so desperate; wanting someone in his life who hadn't been broken and crippled by love, someone who could have unyielding faith in its power and goodness.

This Gold required the ideal love interest; whose commitment and influence were unwavering and needed for a redemption arch. And Belle seemed to be the woman he'd cast to fill that role.

Yet there's something about him, probably his recent behavior and ongoing conduct that strikes Emma as being in direct conflict with someone invested in saving oneself and turning over a new leaf.

But that's just her interpretation.

Seeing Gold like this has made him a less dynamic character, in Emma's opinion. He was an enigma before, unpredictable and complicated, but there's something about this simple and needy love that has ruined that once mysterious and engaging appeal.

Admittedly, Emma doesn't know or get Belle. So her concept of the woman may be off. And her understanding of their relationship biased or skewed. But Emma's basing her opinion on the material she's been given and not much else. It's not her fault that Belle has been so underdeveloped and poorly written.

But Emma does get Gold.

He's her point of view character here. So she gets it. Why he needs his Beauty to his Beast. It's all about true loves with them—all of them—and Emma tries not to be derisively critical about that.

Key word: tries.

When it's all said and done—the phone call—Emma decides to leave the room. She's tired and becoming increasingly temperamental. It's made her feel foolish and overwhelmed. And it's got her reflecting on odd and worthless things.

Like Gold. And her.

And the story that goes with it.

It's a single, now insignificant, piece in this ongoing tale about fairytales made real. But she can't seem to let it go. Not completely, and that's becoming a problem.

So her mind is wondering. It does that occasionally. And sometimes, Emma will let it.

_She had bought a dress. _

_And now Emma was standing outside his shop wearing the damn thing. It wasn't her usual style—long, with a vibrant yet simple floral pattern paired with a light cardigan—but it had caught her eye and the appeal of his potential surprise had spontaneously inspired her to purchase it. _

_That was the point of it, she'd reasoned, to educe and gauge an unexpected reaction from the illustrious pawnbroker whose cool and controlled manner was infuriatingly precise and seemingly infallible. _

_To Emma it was a challenge, he was a challenge. Hence the uncharacteristic dress. The anticipation she felt derived from that and nothing else. Risk and unpredictability had always thrilled her._

_The bell rung pleasantly, announcing her arrival. _

_Mr. Gold looked up and Emma stills._

Then Neal finds her and swiftly steals away her attention. He seems awkward and out of place—he is—but it's particularly obvious to Emma right now. She's coolly leaning against the wall as he comes to stand before her ineptly, his hands flustered in their movements.

Hands seem to be a family thing—it's so wrong to be thinking about that.

Neal is staring at her, so Emma is staring back. Once upon a time is the metaphor for the profound and heavy tension that's constantly dwelling between them now.

Well…that and a fiancé.

And a story.

But that romance has fallen into obscurity and the abyss of the untold. So maybe it's not that relevant in the grand schemes of things anymore. But Emma's stuck in Gold's pawnshop and it's gotten her reminiscing so its presence is here haunting her and that burden is hers to bear. It is what it is. A minor obstacle to overcome, she supposes. She leans back further, crosses her arms, and regards the father of her son.

"He really…uh—loves that girl. Belle," Neal surmised and Emma thinks he's saying it aloud more for himself then for any other purpose because there's really no point at all to the comment. Neal looked contemplative and conflicted—unsure how handle what he'd just witnessed—but Emma doesn't need him stating the obvious to her. Unlike him, she's been here.

Gold in love with Belle is not a new development.

"She's his true love," Emma finally decides to say in return, selling it—her indifference—and Neal seems to buy it. Nodding as he purposefully steps back and away from her. It's almost sad to think that doing so makes Emma feel more comfortable around him. There was a time she'd never imagined that a possibility. But it was a natural response to life's little choices—his, particularly.

It's an unresolved issue between them but that's another chapter for another day.

Still, bitterness decides to rear its ugly head; pointing at and taunting her. It disappoints Emma that this has become a recurring theme for her. Self-sufficiency and reliance were her default traits—there's no need for bringing them up other than to remind herself that she's suppose to be a strong female character.

Emma chooses to ignore the insecurity.

_It does surprise him. _

_Emma standing there, before him, wearing her dress._

_Mr. Gold does a better job of concealing the fact then she had anticipated. Yet there's also a deliberate amusement evident in his features because of it. Which was unexpected and so it mildly irritates her. She'd wanted to catch him completely off guard. Instead it seems she'd unintentionally exposed a bit of herself to him in her efforts to do so._

_As was becoming routine, it appeared, Emma had once again underestimated the man and his subtle influences and insightful perceptions of her. _

_She quickly becomes nervous and slightly flushed under his appraising gaze. She can't help but feel as if she'd somehow done exactly what he'd wanted thus pleasing him. _

_It's an unknown impression—being near someone who seemed to predict and understand her so naturally. And then, witnessing as that person uses the talent and knowledge to their greedy advantage._

_Emma's not sure how that makes her feel. _

_The dress suddenly feels too dressy._

_"Miss Swan," he greets her, catching her off guard. Emma lurches forward gracelessly and steps towards him._

But she's diverged off course and it's not good for the narrative. So Emma pointedly raises her eyebrow at Neal expectantly waiting and encouraging his next bit of dialogue or his exit from the scene.

Ether or will work, she's that indifferent to him right now.

Neal decides to speak, "do you mind staying with him? I need to uh…" he makes a gesture, a twirl of his hand, and Emma assumes its funny hand speak for 'wrap my head around this'

Emma tilts her head at him. Neal's conflicted confusion and obvious discomfort with this plot point makes her further curious about this strained father-son relationship and the back story behind it. But now is not the time to pry and so she leaves it alone.

Instead, she nods her head impartially, conceding to Neal's request, but makes no move to return to the backroom. She needs her own space and stage to balance out her jaded and cluttered thoughts before venturing behind the curtain.

_They had gone to the back of his shop. _

_Emma sat atop of his desk as he stood over and examined her._

_Mr. Gold's touch had been gentler then she thought it would be. Emma was so embarrassed with herself that she was blushing furiously._

_Her entrance had played out like some scene from a cheesy romantic comedy and Gold couldn't have looked more amused by it._

_He tended to her hand while Emma had fidgeted and watched._

As Neal makes his exit downstage. The striking and pleasant sounding ring of the bell filters through the room like an ill-timed laugh. It echoes around her but Emma tries to ignore its jovial song.

Instead, she stares at the window; sporadically catching sight of Neal pacing nearby by it. She considers the familiarity of this place and of him before finally taking her own exit through the upstage entrance.

Emma reenters the backroom. A tenacious silence has built against the backdrop of Gold's strained and shallow breathing. She has no desire to suspend it. So with nothing else to do with herself, Emma quietly observes the room.

This place truly was an anthology. Every item had a history and its own tale to tell. It was fascinating now that she could comprehend and appreciate that. Emma wonders casually how Gold had acquired all these meaningful trinkets and mementos. And, because this was him, what illicit and strategic purposes he intended them for.

She remembers when he used to tell her about odd and random items whenever the mood had struck him to do so. At the time, Emma had chosen not to believe a word he was saying and so paid little attention to the details he'd offered.

She regrets that now.

Emma regrets many things that had happened between them. Mostly, though, she regrets getting swept up in story that was fated to end so poorly.

It was almost like a Greek tragedy; this escalating family drama. But, at least, without all those scorned lovers, bloody betrayals, vengeful murders and deaths…

Emma glances at the poisoned Gold contemplating the situation and its circumstances.

…or maybe it was completely like one.

Biting her lower lip, an old childhood quirk when feeling unease, Emma methodically traces her fingers along the rich wood and articulate detailing of one of the many cabinets lining the room. The sensation of the fine and textured surface against the pads of her fingers is strangely soothing to her.

It's a needed distraction.

There are too many memories in this place, in this room, and being here and alone with Gold reminds Emma of that. The thought of it all is almost suffocating her. And then she pricks her finger.

Emma swears under her breath as she steps back and inevitably finds herself standing over Gold. Despite her desire not to, her gaze falls over the ailing pawnbroker. His eyes are closed and so there's no threat of allowing it to do so.

She was still so angry with him for the things he'd done.

There's a part of her that wants to lash out at him because she was stuck here in crisis and he was dying and nothing between them had been properly resolved. The conclusion to their story had been vague and unfulfilling; an obvious ending but one wholly unfinished. And that's what's bothering Emma about it.

All she needed was something from him; an acknowledgment, an apology, an explanation—closure in the truest sense of the word. Emma was waiting for him to say the right things—all the right things—because words were suppose to be his skill; his forte with a touch of flair was his written style.

It's how their story was supposed to go. Gold would say the words and she would play along to them. And then it would be done and each could carry on towards their intended happily ever after.

Yet he was oddly lacking his verbal talents when it came to her lately and as a result she had misplaced her ability to act accordingly to them. It left things suspended in this awkward and constant state of flux.

Was it a deliberate cruelty on Gold's part? His blatant dismissal and disregard for her seemed particularly harsh, as was his ongoing behavior towards her, and Emma couldn't understand what she had done to deserve it.

Gold carried on like nothing between them had happened or mattered.

But why he was allowing things, the parts between the covers, to continue to drag on like this, hovering over the edge but not yet over it, baffled and frustrated her even further.

Before her impromptu trip with her mother things had been cracked and torn—he had endangered Henry—and she was furious with him but it hadn't been completely broken yet. It was still undone, and her time away had left Emma further conflicted and confused about his designs and involvement with her and her life.

What did she mean to him? What was the point of it?

But then Emma had come back, and he was with Belle. And Gold had almost killed her. So that had been that.

Or, at least, in outward appearances it was. For it seemed in this matter neither was particularly invested in pursuing an honest confrontation.

Emma wasn't sure if it was because they were each waiting for the other to make the first move or because neither, with their new found happiness, had wanted to acknowledge its existence and risk the repercussions of its exposure.

This was how their story went—where it now stood—and Emma found herself trapped in the ambiguous epilogue of it; leaving her feeling bitter and disappointed. And, worst of all, abandoned.

Her most prominent character flaw was her overwhelming fear of abandonment. Gold knew this—had found the important details—and that's what made the blow of his actions that much more unexpected and devastating.

It had numbed and crippled her; having to feel deserted and so easily forgotten once more.

Despite everything she had gained since breaking the curse there was still that part of Emma that considered herself damaged and unlovable and thus easily discarded.

It was a common theme in her life's tragedy if the small list of love ones in her life were anything to go by. All of them had left her behind, in one form or manner, and the fact that Gold had fallen amongst those on her list saddened her more then she cared to admit.

And yet a part of her, deep down, that was fragile and childish and maybe a little bit frightened would not allow her to simply take charge and tackle this unresolved tension between them; to end it once and for all.

It was pathetic and pitiful and so against the character she wanted herself to be—the strong and brave hero that shone so brightly in Henry's young and critical eyes.

What would her son think of her, if he saw her like this, saw her true self?

Emma could feel the prickly burn of her chaotic emotions in the corner of her eyes. She blinks rapidly, urging her useless tears away. There was no point of them and she refused to allow their freedom to flow. Not here, and not now. Not with Gold so close.

He didn't deserve them.

She shakes her head trying to clear and realign her thoughts. Deciding that leaving the room again would be the ideal thing for her to do Emma eagerly makes her way towards the door. Her mind set on collecting Neal and avoiding this inner turmoil as best as she could.

What was done was done. No need to keep dwelling on it.

"You tripped on your dress."

Gold's strained voice seizes her like an epiphany. It's a strange thing for him to say so arbitrarily and that's why it catches Emma's attention. She stops and turns slowly towards him.

He's clearly struggling to breathe, let alone speak, yet he seems determined to do so anyways, "and broke a lamp. It was a very expensive lamp."

It takes Emma no time at all to catch on to what incident he's referring to— it's the story after all. Their story.

The start of it.

But it's mentioning here feels too much like exposition. And Emma can't justify the rationale or incentive for it being brought up now. But it is, and so maybe it'll have a point later on in the saga that's unfolding here.

Or maybe it won't be explored at all beyond this—the writing between them has been shoddy at best and pretty inconsistent.

But Emma can't put the novel moment down and wants to read further in to it; so she restlessly walks over and sits on the edge of the cot Gold occupies. Her lower back touches his hip. He's radiating heat. She makes a point of keeping her stance vacant and her eyes distracted by their clustered surroundings.

It becomes apparent that Gold's waiting for her to speak; affix snippets to the moment developing. Emma's weary of him and resigned not to do so but then he's tapping his fingers along her shoulder and tugging her hair lightly.

It was an old habit of his; touching her in seemingly peculiar and mindless ways. The intimacy of it gripes her and her resolve falters. Finally, Emma gives in.

"You threatened to charge me for it," She adds then, "but I cut my hand, so I think you changed your mind." And as she speaks there's a wistful smile playing along her lips where there shouldn't be one.

This wasn't supposed to be a fond memory anymore.

Yet Emma continues, "I never knew if you actually intended to—make me pay the price for it, that is. What you say and what you do always seemed to be at odds."

"Intent is meaningless, dearie, and I liked your dress too much to make you regret wearing it." Emma turns to Gold and sees that there's also a smile where there shouldn't be one.

No—it's more of a smirk and that works better with the words he's saying. He's falling back into character. It makes her feel more at ease, despite herself.

"And then you bandaged my hand with your handkerchief and said I at least owed you another favor for ruining that as well. So I offered you a secret and a smile as a compromise," the unintended tilt of her lips deepens and even brightens, "I told you dirty limericks until you cracked one. Surprised and reluctant as you were"

It had been an honest smile; unplanned and unguarded. Reflecting on it now, Emma remembers being captivated by it, and by him. Because she had never known anyone whose smile was an ulterior motive the way his usually were. So the sincerity of the one she had elicited from him had felt like a true and special rarity.

She had smiled back. That one had been honest, too.

Emma, distracted by her thoughts, barely catches Gold's next words. "Then you, grudgingly, admitted to trusting me more then you had aspired to."

He had been so pleased with that revelation. It seems like he still was. His smugness about it was, and continues to be, infuriating.

"You know…I was actually going to tell you that I'd bought the dress for the evening but I think you'd already deduced that little secret and would have called foul on me."

"It was a pretty dress and too unexpected for me not to suspect it," He confesses.

"Well you did tell me that you had something planned," Emma muses, "But all you did was take me next door for a vanilla cone."

"Who doesn't like ice cream?" Is all he has to say to that, "and it worked, did it not?"

They're bantering, and falling in to old comforts. It's familiar and the ambiance too sweet. It shouldn't belong here, between them, anymore. Emma bows her head, allowing her hair to spill forward and obscure her face from his vision, as the amusement from it fades away.

Gold coughs, has a small fit of them, and it helps to further diminish the lighthearted moment. Emma sighs and tries to embrace the erupt shift.

So it surprises her when it's Gold who tries to hold on to it.

"I saw no future for it. But then you were here and I was happy. I had not expected that." He pauses to catch his breath, "If things were different it would be yours."

Gold was being ambiguous and abstract and too obvious. But they're cheap words. A dying man's words; pointless, irrelevant, and superficial. Said for the sake of saying them and done without regard for their consequence.

Emma doesn't need them, "you're assuming I'd have wanted it."

It's a red herring. And if Gold truly did care he'll understand that and play along to her intentional misdirect. These are the things she needs from him now.

And he does—plays along, that is.

She'd forgotten he was capable of small kindnesses.

But then there's another touch, rougher than the last—insistent, almost—sliding, clawing, down her arm. It seemed he was holding something back while forcing another forward. As if refusing to let this moment progress to it natural conclusion.

He was seeking a particular outcome from it, Emma was sure of that now. But she wants no part of it, or his endless manipulations.

"Stop with the heartfelt confessions. They don't suit you and I'd rather not have to carry the weight of some hollow words you spouted to me when you were delirious, poisoned, and having some sort of existential crises."

Gold eyes her intently, the glow of his gaze luring and enigmatic.

"Don't go breaking a dying man's heart. That's a cruel way to end a story. And I've always had a soft spot for happy endings."

Emma snorts. Gold flinches, one hand still gripping his chest.

"Is this it, then? Is this our long-awaited finale?" She inquires curious yet sharply, "You claim to know the future. So spell it out and tell me how it ends."

"And ruin all this suspense and buildup. I think not, dearie"

There's a heated spark of annoyance in Emma. He's purposefully doing this; editing the scene to play out differently than it needs to. Her sharp tongue is swift in its response.

"It's a crappy story, Gold, and I don't do love triangles. The defining choices have come and gone. There's no crossroad in the horizon and I'm not the conflicted hero here. And we both know you're no remorseful villain. So let's lose the complicated drama. It's time to end this ill-fated tale and move on the next one," there's a quirk to her lips that dispels some of the heaviness of her monologue, "after all, progression is key to an engaging and satisfying story."

"But the illicit love affair is always the most enthralling part, don't you think? It's dark and clever and consumingly addictive," Gold said between staggered breathes, an astute smirk curving along the edges," and it never really ends the way one would like or expect it to. Closure is absent or not given kindly. The lovers will never truly let it come to an end until they are forced to do so. It is beyond them to let each other go completely. "

His words are haunting and foreshadowing in nature. And he knew she was becoming well-versed in reading his words.

But will she play along to them this time?

After everything that's happened, does she even want to?

Emma observes him closely. Gold's dark eyes are piercing, calculating, and steadfast despite his obvious pain and overexertion. She realizes that he's staring at her like he already knows he's getting what he wants. And she gets the feeling that this is the sensation one experiences when falling victim to one of his dubiously convenient deals.

She exhales loudly, frustration evident, "I don't like this story anymore," she admits solemnly, eyes becoming dull and downcast.

Emma doesn't even notice his clammy hand slipping around her wrist until it's too late; Gold's already lifting and pulling it towards him. She could yank it back if she wanted to.

Yet she doesn't.

Even Emma is having a hard time understanding her character motivation at this point. Nothing she does makes sense to her anymore. It wasn't even complicated, it was just bad writing.

Then she ponders idly about Gold, about the obscure things driving him, and about her hand in his. He's urging it upwards and towards his lips; intend on kissing the back of it.

Emma thinks it's a horribly cliché move and not like them at all. But instead, and to her mild surprise, just as Gold's about to lay his mouth against her skin he gently twists her hand around; slowly and delicately brushing his lips along the newly bared flesh of her inner wrist.

Just over her floral tattoo.

"This was the last place…" he murmurs softly, voice distant and lost in a bittersweet memory, "…that I kissed you." His breath is warm and harsh against her. It tingles. Emma blinks.

Like many of their dealings, there was more to this than meets the eye. Symbolism is what kept them hidden and so interesting. Gold was making a deliberate point with his gesture. One only she was privy to deciphering and understanding.

And Emma was starting to make sense of it—all of it.

"The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one."

His implicit and foreboding words have Emma inclining her head at Gold resignedly; her long blonde hair spilling around her recklessly as she smiles sadly and perceptively at him.

This was the revelation she'd longed for; spoken so simply and purposefully to her. Gold had sought an ending that wasn't an ending at all, just the set up for a newer and darker continuation if and when inspiration struck.

A secret and a smile—it's tone so different from the last one—is what he's giving her. It's what he wants from her. What he's now offering to her.

It's a risky proposition. It was another story—a sequel of sorts—between them and only them; one involving clandestine and forbidden desires. A cloak-and-dagger tale, if you will. The irony of that is sloppy and blatantly obvious.

Emma thinks it's a terrible idea—one that wouldn't sell—and her smile quickly collapses under the weight of it.

"Why are you doing this," she asks quietly, because she needs to know.

"Isn't that obvious, dearie," Gold asserts flatly, tone dejected, "I'm a bad man."

She nods, unsure how to argue the point. There really was no need to—he was stating a fact to her—but Emma adds a, "not always," anyways because the good can still slip in and remind her that it was there too.

It had existed here, in this very place—Gold's pawnshop—and Emma is acutely aware of that. This little shop was the setting for so many critical happenings and significant encounters. And this was just another one of the many between them.

A heavy silence descends. One interposed by the sounds of Gold's strident and ragged breathing. Emma uses the somber quiet to distract her attention as she gazes around the room contemplatively.

Was this a beginning or an end? The beginning of the end or the end of the beginning?

Emma thinks there are too many ways to tell it.

A slight but insistent rapping along her pulse point catches Emma's notice. It's odd and takes a moment for her to figure it out.

It's a read and a tell veiled under an established habit. Gold's slyly assessing her responses. Trying to make sense of her in an attempt to comprehend and make use of her inner turmoil and unease. And yet, by doing so, he's unintentional made clear his own uncertainty and anxieties.

Emma pulls her hand away. It slips from Gold's hold swiftly and much too easily.

"You're not even in love with me," she decides to point out. It needs to be said but it hurts more than it should to say it aloud.

"Love is fickle and fleeting," he counters shrewdly, exhaling loudly, then tentatively adds, "we don't need it."

"Then this isn't a fairytale."

"Not all stories need to be." It's a rare submission of honesty. It elicits a deep sense of ambivalence within her.

It's a novel feeling.

But Emma could do without it.

She decides that this dreariness has drawn on too long; it's time to move past it. She'd never been one for dwelling.

"You're a horrible romantic." She accuses lightly, rising to her feet.

"Emma…" Gold starts but she's shoving her hands in her coat pockets and turning away.

"Let's stop jumping ahead." Emma advises. The threat of Cora was looming and quickly approaching, Gold was wounded and crippled by poison, and her life, along with those she loved most, was still hanging in the balance. None of this mattered if any of those conflicts were left unresolved.

There were too many obstacles to overcome right now and she needed to go triumph over them alongside the heroes. This part, with her precariously ill-advised love interest and its complicated, risky, and immoral details, could wait.

So she was turning back the pages.

For now, at least.

But that didn't stop her from leaving this part behind on a more hopeful note.

"If we live through this maybe I'll let you take me for a vanilla cone," Emma tosses over her shoulder as the bell rings; cueing her towards the door and past the curtain, "and, if you're lucky, I might even wear a pretty dress for you."

She hears Gold's unexpected and breathy chuckle as she walks away.

There would be time, soon enough, to write this story.

Fairytales were overrated anyways.

* * *

Hello again! It's been a little while.

I had wanted to post this story sooner but my little niece decided to surprise us all 6 weeks early so the last couple of days have been super crazy. But here it is finally, and I really hope you enjoyed it (And the length!)

This story ended up being quite the grueling endeavor to write and complete. Been working on it for like 3 weeks now. I started it back when the sneak peaks for 2x16 first popped up (hence the phone call but the context of the scene being AU from the actual episode) and inspiration would come suddenly and go just as quickly.

I had a really hard time getting into Emma's head for extended period of time and so this story kept feeling disjointed and that frustrated me. I still don't feel like she's completely in character here (which sadly works with her canon counterpart-who has been all over the place plot wise but emotional stunted this season.) and Gold, who with each new episode, is getting harder to write as my love for the character seems to be waning.

I also debated with myself for a while on how I wanted to end this- on an ambiguously light note or a tragic one (which I did partially write out)-which was the biggest struggle. I kept reverting back to Gold's speech about love affairs and how they don't quite end the way you'd want them to but, for once, I didn't choose the sadder ending.

And I may have gone a little overboard with the literary and theatrical themes and metaphors and stuff. I'm not sure if it worked for the story or if it diminished the quality of the piece. I would really appreciate some feedback. With each story I'm hoping to learn and better my writing. Not just the end result but also the process of developing and creating a story. To know what works and what doesn't.

To all of you taking the time to read and follow my stories-**thank you**- and to my reviewers-**your wonderful support has and will continue to inspire me.**

XOXOs - for all of you :)

**Gold's line about secrets is not mine-I read the quote somewhere and liked it.


	10. (13) Pieces

01.

Blood and blood and blood. Power, magic. A beautiful girl, and a shining son.

It's what he wanted, has always wanted; a once upon a time. Family, and Vengeance, and really, really, real True Love.

The concept of romanticism with its specific movements and ideals are what should matter most. It's the fairytale concept, and its notion of pretty resolutions, forgiveness, and a happily ever after.

But he's become blinded by cascades of curled gold, and distracted still by the circling motions of a pair of haunted and emerald-like orbs.

Priorities have altered.

This is him now. What he's become. The word's undone. He knows this, knows these things. Words were his craft, his gift, and his art form.

She's done this to him. Slipped in, and tore at the old cracks; made a bigger mess of things.

It's a woman. It's always a woman; the love of, in the end. He has a pattern; a common and ongoing tendency. She shouldn't have been one.

It's too late for that.

02.

Emma's pretty when she sleeps, prettier when she smiles.

Gold doesn't get to see the latter. Only stolen a few glimpses of it. She gives it openly to only one person, and it's not him.

He shouldn't be jealous of a child, but he is. It's sad, really, the things she has unintentionally done to him. The ways that she's reduced him.

It wasn't supposed to have played out like this.

She'd been a fleeting indulgence. And then she wasn't anymore. Suddenly she was more. Unforeseen, but even he can't predict these things.

Feelings have always been his blind spot; he'd made mistakes in the past because of them. It was a problem, it still was, apparently.

Because this was—Emma was—a loss of control. And control was a necessity, a required constant. Gold's not quite sure what to do now. Let it be, let it be. Or let it snap and be in pieces. He doesn't know what he wants.

Confliction is a burden. One he knows he can't afford.

He'd always had a plan, except when he hasn't. He's meticulously obsessive about that now. He can't make those same mistakes.

But he already has.

Emma's become a secret that he keeps. Close to the heart. There's no story to it, it's too simple for that. Gold kissed her once, and she kissed him back. It happened again, then again, and again after that. There's continuation and progression. There's nothing else to tell.

But still she's not what he expected, not at all. Emma was full of secrets. Just like him. Full of hidden meanings and subtle truths. There was more to her. But most of it was complicated and damaged, broken and flawed.

It fascinated Gold because she didn't really show it. Knew how to hide, and keep her lies on the surface. Maybe even better then him.

And he's always sought out and appreciated those with finer talents.

The woman on the outside was an allusion, a false image, a trick of the light. It would fool anyone—it did—if you didn't know how to look.

Gold thought he'd figured it out; the ways to see her. He's not so sure anymore. There's more to that. The implication of it worries him.

Emma can play the roles she needs and wants to—flawlessly, effortlessly—makes them her skin and her own for all the world to see. Layers, for the armor she builds and wears always.

But they don't quite reach her eyes; these fragmented pieces she conceives and puts on display. And so she'll give him glimpses because she knows he's the only one who really wants to see.

But just as quickly she'll distract Gold from them; draw him away from getting a clear and proper look. He falls for these little ruses of hers every single time. So he's never seen the true extent of that damaged soul of hers.

Sometimes Gold thinks that it may be for the best; not knowing what lies beneath the heart of her.

Or maybe he's just a coward, and she makes him more so of one. She is brave and strong and determined despite her obvious insecurities and fears. Emma is everything he once longed to be.

She's too good for him.

03.

Gold can't keep her.

But he wants to, wants it far too much. It jars him; the extent of his feeble devotion to her.

Though he does make great efforts to conceal that from her; wears his own mask of indifference and self-serving intentions, but Gold suspects that Emma can see right through them. That she can read between the lies he writes for her.

She's dangerously perceptive, but pointedly oblivious when she wants to be.

A decisive misdirect; an act of mutual safeguarding and keeping. She's protecting them, he understands, though a part of him rather she didn't.

But Emma looks after the things she loves even if she's not mindful enough to notice her disposition to do so. He secretly adores her for that; for the delicate and innate goodness that glows within her despite the shadows that always seem to surround her.

And he favors the possibility that she could love him; though she may not be aware of that ether.

Or maybe Gold's just fooling himself.

It doesn't really matter to him ether way. He just needs his own delusions to maintain the upper hand against her because it's always a battle between them; in one form or another.

And he can only function on the idea of an advantage.

It keeps him focused. Gold can't lose sight of his goal; not now, not when he's so close, and especially not for her.

It's exhausting, but he can't stop. So he's the one pushing it because he needs Emma to believe. That's the point. He needs that to still be the point.

But it's not anymore; not entirely. He knows that such a linear objective ended with a kiss, and a kiss back. Now it's become skewed and curved; Gold doesn't know what to make of it.

It's pointless really; what he thinks, or what he really wants. Emma's the one with the power between them. She's had it from the beginning.

And that frightens him. That he'd given it over to her so easily, and without a premeditated thought about it.

It's wrong, and not at all how he deals.

Power is too important to him, has always been, especially now. It's all he's come to know; that he was powerful. Not loved, nor cared for, or capable of good.

Gold was the man who held the power. It's what he is, and who wants to be. And he did not dare lose that which has come to define him as he has all else.

And yet, Emma's the one who breaks him down when the time comes. She does so with a discouraging amount of ease.

It's she who chooses to let him go, and she who decides quite resolutely to be done with him.

Gold's never felt more powerless, or so angry.

Bad things tend to happen in these situations but she's fortunate another, truer love unknowingly reemerges and intervenes. It gives Gold back old perspectives and priorities, and draws his attention back to more important matters.

Emma being gone helps too.

04.

Days and days and days go by and Gold finds that it just doesn't feel the same anymore; small town life without her, despite the spark of magic flowing back in the air and once more strongly in his veins.

Even the delight of an unfulfilled romance reborn is short lived and broken. He manages despite the heartbreak.

It surprises him—regardless of what he has regained, and of what he's so close to achieving—that he can't seem to let Emma go.

He's lost her and somehow she taken a part of him with her; something vital, and personal. He sure she hadn't meant to. What ever it was it manages to kill the challenge and thrill of it all.

Then he nearly kills her in return.

It's unintentional of course. Her reemergence was an improbability, the cards were stacked too far against her, and it's what Gold tells himself as he walks away from the happy reunion.

But then maybe it's not, he thinks instead darkly, as he dares a glance back over his shoulder. Emma could ruin everything. Ruin him.

She already has in so many ways.

.05

There's a confrontation soon after.

It's brief but charged, and maybe even a little flirtatious in its verbal delivery and emphasis; at least on his part. Its how these things have always gone between them, and yet, Gold can't help but feel a certain sense of finality about it when it's all said and done.

It's an awareness that comes once Emma's left his shop. That nothing can be as it was. Not even their tit-for-tat dynamic.

There were just too many players in the game now.

.06

After that, things fall back into routine rather quickly. Which means that tensions are building and everything is slowly falling apart.

As was becoming custom; a threat looms in the horizon. They're all biding their time. It seems like the thing to do.

Emma's distant and evasive now that she's home again. It's intentional, and for the best. But Gold can't help but hate her for it; that she is, and remains to be the stronger of the two of them.

It shouldn't matter at all, but it does. So he uses it; that irrelevant anger. It makes it easier to be impatient and sharp with her during those rare encounters they have.

Also it helps that she's now constantly flanked by those do-gooding parents of hers. And witnessing first hand how much Emma's allowed herself to become an awkward but obedient extension of them.

She's recreated herself into a good for nothing caricature. To please them, he assumes. And that alone is enough to elicit his ire and disappointment.

It's not his place to care, or to even notice these things about her anymore. But Gold does, and it bothers him that even now he'd liked to. Truly know her, and the deep shades she keeps hidden away from them all. It still matters to him.

He can't have it so he tries hard to bury it away, and that's for everything he feels for her.

And Emma plays along with his act because she's kinder then he is, and more capable of reigning in and handling her emotions.

She knows what's best for them both.

.07

Or maybe it's just what she wants.

Perhaps Emma never really felt anything for him to begin with, and so it's not difficult for her to pretend like nothing of significance existed between them.

It's that thought alone which snaps his steely resolve. Gold actively confronts her about it.

Emma's too calm when he does so, and not the least bit afraid of him. Reminds him that they have their own different set of loved ones now; they don't need each other. Not like that, not anymore. It's better this way.

Damage pieces can't be fixed with more broken ones.

She's not worth the loss of true love, she tells him.

And he's taken aback by her resolute declaration, of her ability to so passively belittle her worth, and that she would dare offer him one of her false smiles as a consolation.

That only makes the moment worse and his foolishness more apparent.

And Gold's never played the fool well.

He doesn't want Emma's gentleness, or her thoughtful considerations. And he most certainly wanted none of her sacrificial nobility here.

Honestly, Gold loathed the impact her parent's presence and influences have already had on her. And he despises even more so what she's made of herself to please them and there narrow minded expectations.

She was becoming charming in all the wrong ways.

He'd rather face the flawed and stubbornly guarded woman she'd been over this glorified interpretation of the heroic and ideal daughter.

At least that had been an honest representation of her true self. That was something, and it mattered.

Fractured, but as real as could be.

This shell of a woman was desperate, and too needy for acceptance. Emma was losing herself merely for the approval of that simpleminded family of hers.

He can't bare the sight of her like this. So he walks away instead.

It's the unfortunate start of a very bad day.

08.

Belle is gone with a bang.

Bealfire, lost and now found, wants nothing at all to do with him.

And Emma, ever the victim of fateful circumstances, is seemingly beyond his reach.

A day, all it takes is a single day. And everything becomes irreversibly altered.

One day only

In the span of which Gold still manages to kiss his dear Emma three times despite the dire and changing of circumstances.

An exposed kiss. A poor kiss. And a kiss to remember.

None of which needed to happen. Yet that doesn't stop him from kissing her each of those three times.

08.1

The first one is one too many.

Anger and hurt; pure and simple.

Gold pointedly threatens her whole family and calls in that favor. And Emma should never have followed after him, but she does.

She catches him outside.

Brazenly she confronts him about his irresponsible and increasingly callous behavior while making it quite clear that she's unsympathetic to his inner turmoil, or his childish need to lash out because of it.

Gold takes it, what Emma gives; only because it's her calling him out on it.

It's during their heated exchange when she's all rage and passionate audacity against him once more. Gold can't help but admire the boldness she still carries.

Emma's so much like her old self right then and there that he impulsively grabs her and takes her in his arms roughly; kisses her madly, and in plain sight.

She slaps him in return for that, and then turns her back on him.

It should never have happened. And it shouldn't have happened again.

But it does.

08.2

Poorly played; two for two.

The second of the three is an intended comfort, and the one most unnecessary.

It's hastily executed; occurring in the quiet of an empty hallway, and solely the result of too many losses and revelations in too short a time period.

Emma had run away, as far as she could, which is not that far at all.

Gold finds her leaning against the wall opposite the apartment; standing comfortably in the familiarity of her own isolation.

A heavy silence descends upon them as he walks over and situates himself evasively close to her.

He should leave her alone. That's his problem, he's come to figure that out; Gold can't seem to leave her be.

She looks fragile, tired mostly. And emotions are too raw and heightened; leading to risky bouts of reckless decisions.

He touches her cheek. She closes her eyes. They're family now, but he steals her lips anyways.

This is not how he wanted it to be.

Forcefully, Gold pushes Emma further against the wall and deepens it.

He kisses her then because he's selfish, and resentful, and terribly afraid. And because he wants to forget what's happening, and what will need to happen now that it has.

But then rationale returns, and so he ends it instead. She breathes heavily and slowly.

He regrets this one. There was nothing to be said about it, and so he says nothing. She remains silent too. But Emma's clutching his shawl, and her eyes are dull but hard.

Gold nearly dares her to do it.

They'd all be better off without him. And so would he. She stares at him for moment, and then releases her grip.

She looks away. He does the same.

They leave it alone.

08.3

Three's a charm.

It's the third and the last one that mattered, and meant the most.

Because its emergence occurs when Gold was sure there was nothing else left to lose. When his mind was free from all restraints and restrictions, and he was allotted the luxury of no longer needing to care for nor fear the consequences.

He is so nearly on the brink of death. The world is blurred and fading fast as his dagger is being risen to fall upon his heart.

And then it's there.

Suddenly Emma is his only source of light amongst the impending darkness.

It's not really real; this third kiss between them. Not now at least.

Emma's not even in the room anymore when Gold feels her falling over him. Cora having already swept her far and away with a flick of her wrist and a swirling cloud of smoke.

It's just a memory.

His last to experience, and not the one he expected in his final moment of life.

The irony of it being that it literally was their third kiss. When it had actually happened; right here, in his shop, in this very room.

One of the many where Gold had kissed her and Emma had kissed him back.

There really was nothing special about it.

So he cannot understand why it comes to him then, invading his mind as all else slips away, but it does.

He still lets it.

Consequences do come eventually because he doesn't die in the end. And things can never be so simple.

It's made apparent to Gold later. Only after the conflict between life and death, mothers and daughters, and prolonged vengeance has long since come and gone does he realize what it meant; that last kiss, the one that wasn't really a last kiss at all.

It wasn't just about the act of kissing her but the feeling behind and all around it that was truly significant.

A happy memory, that's what it was.

The last time he had truly felt that kind of undiluted and careless happiness.

It was so easy to forget that sort of thing; being happy. But he remembers it with her, and he won't be able to let that go.

It's the only kiss of the three that truly haunts him.

09.

Gold seeks her out eventually.

Finds Emma at Granny's and takes a seat across from her as Henry slips off and away.

It's almost like old times; their words, their tones, their heated stare. He feels nostalgic. Maybe even a little romantic.

He reminds her that they made magic together.

In more ways then one, he thinks slyly.

All the good that did Emma says with a shrug then tells him that despite it all she's really glad he's not dead. He's the lesser of two evils after all. The enemy you know, and all that.

He ignores the sarcasm and offers her another lesson. Free of charge. But Emma catches it, and calls him a liar.

She leaves Gold with that.

10.

Then he has Lacey.

And nothing good would come out of that.

Gold was already darker then the dark. He had no need for a convenient enabler regardless of his desires for the girl standing right there wearing the face of his stolen love.

Encouraging that violent beast deep inside would benefit no one, least of all him.

Still, Gold uses that pathetic and unfortunate soul to release some of his built up frustrations. It feels too good—inflicting that kind of pain on someone else—in all the bad sort of ways.

Something needed to be done, and he was clearly incapable of handling it himself.

So it's with that in mind that he does what he does when he decides to call her.

And Emma answers.

Gold skips past false pleasantries and asks her point blank what she would say if he admitted to nearly beating a man to death not one hour ago.

Nothing is her quick smart response because she'd be too busy arresting his cane wielding ass for aggravated assault. Again.

His grin comes fast and loose when he tells her where to find him. At his shop, and for once she comes alone. Small miracle that it was, he didn't think he could handle the Charming clan in full force at the moment.

Gold passively confesses his crime to her while Emma slips those familiar handcuffs around his wrists.

Her touch is warm and firm, her body so close, and still it seems she soothes him in a way only she can; without really meaning to.

It's a little disconcerting. This sway she holds over him. There's a part of Gold that's curious to know what Emma would do—how she would feel—if she ever learned the true extent of it.

But there's also the other side of him—always self-serving and viciously angry—that just wishes to be rid of it, all of it, and her above all else.

And he could make it go away. It would be so easy, doing so. His lovely Lacey reminded him of that tonight; of the horrors he was still, and always would be, capable of. They're tempting, these dark thoughts.

He feels a pull; light and sturdy, but also gentle.

It's Emma. It's always Emma.

She's pulling him back, and not just in a literal sense. So Gold goes along with her willingly.

His night in jail is a voluntary one.

They're both quite aware that he can leave his cell whenever the mood strikes him to do so. Regardless, Gold remains confined for the time being seated leisurely on his stiff and shoddy cot. His heavy gaze remains attentively on her.

Emma in turn sticks around longer then necessary in a likely attempt to figure him out and makes sense of this most recent act of violence and subsequent attempt to atone for it.

Why he does some of the things he does is truly the question of the night.

It's rare, not having an answer. It leaves a bitter taste in Gold's mouth.

He stares as Emma leaned herself further against the bars to study him; making it look as if she were the one locked away behind them.

The visual was a good metaphor for the both of them; each willingly trapped in their own set of cages.

They're self imposed, and separate. Neither can get to the other; not fully, and not enough.

There will always be something between them.

He engages along with Emma's curiosities simply to keep her around. Their time alone together was a thing of the past, and he's missed their quieter moments.

Finally, she wonders aloud, with only a hint of concern showing, if this would now become a common thing.

Not if he has her to stop him Gold affirms within but doesn't actually say. He asks instead about his son. He should be making amends with his boy. Perhaps Emma would be the key to that.

He quickly realizes his mistake in making presumptions, especially in regards to her. Just the mention of his son's name has an instantaneous effect on her. Emma becomes sharp and defensive; like it was a preset response. He watches her bury herself.

And Gold can't turn away even as she snaps at him to figure out his own damn love life and not to impose his drama on to the rest of them; especially not on her.

Don't call again.

Now the air is thick and the relaxed moment is lost as Emma turns and hastily leaves without another word. He vacates his cell not long after she'd gone.

Gold had tried to do the right thing.

He feels no better for it.

11.

It was a loss of control.

He had not expected it to be Emma's.

She finds him where one would always find him on any given afternoon; minding his shop.

His little bell alerts him to her abrupt and charged arrival. Emma is anxious and flustered. Her eyes wild as they catch his; burning flickers of frayed and unbound emotional chaos.

Actual concern takes hold of him as he glides past the glass display and approaches her swiftly.

He asks her what's wrong.

Emma tells him, and needs this from him.

It's about belief—there's a sort of coming full circle angle about it—she's here asking for his. Emma wants him to believe.

In her, because it seems no one else would.

They don't see, they've never seen, it's always been assumptions and the way they think it should be. They don't understand she tries to reason, with him or herself, as she rambles on and on.

He's compelled to touch her, lays a hand on her shoulder, to get her to stop. Emma gaze becomes chillingly blank but still teetering; nearly over the edge.

Gold needs to pull her back.

And now he understands why she's come; sought him out specifically. It seems, after all this time, she knew he was still the only one who wanted to see.

So Emma asks him again.

He's silent at first; assessing his response, and the ramification of the wrong words spoken. The answer is actually a simple one when it does come.

Not long ago, Gold had told her that he would not bet against her again, and he had meant it then, and still means it now. For once, he says to her what he wants to; he tells Emma the absolute truth.

He does believe her, and his help was hers to have.

Emma marvels at his affirmation of faith; the astonished look on her face would almost be an endearing one if the circumstances behind it were not so fraught with undisclosed insinuation.

But still, she hates exposure and lettering herself be seen. In spite of everything that hasn't changed. So her next course of action is not a surprising one.

She kisses him.

To distraction, and as always, Gold falls for it.

And so he kisses her back.

There's continuation and progression once more as an overwhelming sense of frenzied euphoria takes over him. He succumbs to it, and to her.

Gold pulls Emma closer to him in every way he can; bodies against hard objects, material made immaterial as they fall down scattered, frantic hands on flushed skin, heated touches with wanton fingertips, softer caresses alongside their more aggressive pulls.

Anything and all he can take to have of her.

Breathing in, breathing out, and then completely breathless. It was physical and passionate release pursued, taken, and fully realized.

There was nothing beyond this. It won't be enough.

Contentment follows as he lies beside her. Emma was calm now and pleasingly spent. And Gold's almost giddy and the lightest he's felt in some time as her breathe tickles over his heart.

He wants more. He wants this to last.

So he slows time down; only slightly but enough to have her for a little while longer then should be possible.

Because what was the point of all this power and magic if he couldn't conjure up something as simple as a few more minutes of this; ignorance and bliss with her by his side.

Gold takes her slowly this time. As carefully and thoroughly as he would for all things that truly mattered to him.

Still it's over too soon. Now Emma has to go, and he has to let her.

He can only control so much.

12.

It's the hint of a smile that does it.

That changes him.

It's a brief moment. To all those around them it wouldn't imply much of anything at all. But it does, and for Gold it signifies and alters everything.

Given to him by Emma in passing and, for once in his dark life, Gold can't allow himself to be selfish. Or let her boy stay lost despite the personal cost to him.

He won't do that to her; let that same sort of pain he's endured for too long of a lifetime to overtake hers.

By Emma, he can do right.

Because in an unguarded moment she had gone ahead and offered him a real smile—small and withheld as it tried to be—one that was genuine and so purely her.

Given to him because she's asked for his help, and because Emma knew he'd give it to her.

And it's enough, for now, it's enough. His choice had long since been made with its price to be paid.

Now Gold's standing on a ship in another world. And he's reflecting on old notions.

On Once Upon a Time and of Family, and Vengeance, and really, really, real True Love.

That fairytale concept.

He'd wanted it, and had thought he still did. He's not so sure anymore. Too much has happened to him since then.

Emma has happened. And that makes all the difference.

It's given Gold a new perspective.

For her, he's only here for her, even if she would never know. Deep down, he knows he owes her at least that. He glances over to Emma, and catches her eyes.

Now he understands what it feels like to be brave and strong and determined. He could face certain death if it meant her happiness.

And it's a good way to go, Gold thinks with a grin.

13.

Emma smiles back in the end.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

As always, I really hope you enjoyed reading this new story.

I'll admit that this was not the story I had thought I would updating with. I'm glad it is because I'm actually really happy with how it turned out. Even if it did come about and together by total chance.

I've been going through a slight and annoying case of writer's block for the stories I've been planning and actively working on when I happened to fall upon the old notes I'd written up for this one (on my mom's laptop. I have a bad habit of writing whatever ideas come to me onto the nearest thing possible; be it paper, desktop, work computer, envelopes, mom's laptop, etc. and then forgetting about them) I'd only had about 500-700 words done and thought I would toss in maybe another 500 more and get it posted up for the finale...

...and here we are a week later, about 4000 words more then planned, and a story nothing at all like how I had originally conceived it would be.

Writing truly is a fascinating experience.

Thanks again for reading and inspiring me to purse it. Reviews are nice too.

xoxox


	11. Eyes

**This was absolutely inspired by BundyShoes' oneshot 'Eye' (Ch. 42 of The Stories that Make Us)  
**

* * *

Emma's eyes are seductive and bare, temperamental, and pretty little liars.

From blue to green to green to blue, back and forth, mood to mood. Truth be told in one moment then I'll take my secrets to the grave the next.

Her eyes have become too predictable to Gold in their unpredictability. It's maddening, and infatuating; the complexities and simplicities that lie within a pair of eyes that can't seem to decide what color they'd like to be.

Sometimes Emma has her father's eyes, but mostly she carries her mother's.

And other times she only has eyes for him.

Or at least Gold would like to think so. Perhaps it's the other way around. He does love it most when the two of them dance.

The ever changing tones and intensity of Emma's eyes are secrets exposed and truths turned to lies. It just depends on the way you look at them, or the way she looks back.

In their sharper angles he sees that she loves to hate him, and given a particular shade he finds that he hates to love her in return.

They're a blessing, and a curse, but purely magic in their iridescence.

There is a price to be paid to simple look upon them deeply. One that Gold endures over and over; just for the sake of another glimpse into them.

He's never known eyes like hers before.

They say that eyes are the windows to ones soul but sometimes Gold thinks hers are mirrors instead; they reflect and reveal the parts of him he may not like to see, but they're still right there because Emma has only ever seen him exactly as he is.

They're the type of eyes Gold could lose himself to, and the ones he already has.

Or maybe he's just finally found himself in them.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Been having slight writer's block and a complete lack of inspiration for the stories I've been working on so decided to challenge myself and see what I could throw together within a time limit (2 hours - I know its generally 1 but I'm a really slow writer) to distract myself from my dilemma and hopefully get me mental juices flowing again.

Hope you all enjoyed it.

And thanks to BundyShoes for her awesome series and for giving me her blessing to follow through with this little oneshot.

xoxox


	12. Poetics

Dark eyes, colorful lies, and the way he sighs.

She thinks of Gold in poetics; aged and wordy, and filled too deeply with quaint theories and subtle implies.

It's not easy to be close to him. He intentionally makes it a challenge for her. She can't really comprehend many of the whys.

But still, Emma tries.

**~~**0**~~**

"Your house is awfully pink."

Is the first thing out of her mouth as soon as Gold opens the front door; it's early that evening, and she's wearing an old dress, and so it seems like the thing to be said.

"Salmon, actually," he contends without a beat missed, "symbolic in nature, I suppose it is, as the color means to have found ones true vocation in life and of being thoroughly happy about that."

Emma nearly tells him that pink is pink any way you try to color it but instead considers his words and remembers how impishly giddy he'd looked bartering that favor out of her, "makes a sort of sense then, I guess."

His grins in a deceptive way and ushers her inside, "I also didn't pick it."

"Sure, but you know pink is still pink even if it is trying to be a smartass about it," she decides frankly as she steps in close; more attentive to him then the surrounding aesthetics, "the horrendous color scheme a credit to the former Mrs. Gold then?

"Not quite, dearie" he said with a dismissive yet loaded stare, "but that's neither here nor there."

She shakes her head and gives a tart smile, "really not one for straight answers, are you?"

"A habit," he walks past her. She follows along, "easy answers can too often lead to the wrong conclusions. And I much prefer specific outcomes."

"Well that's a shady outlook, and a mildly depressing approach to conversation."

"How so?" He stops, turns slightly, and seemed genuinely interested in her response.

She shrugs casually, "it's just a rigged game then. And where's the thrill in that?"

"From knowing and watching it all play out accordingly, of course," he tells her, but Emma finds the sureness of his answer to be put on, and perhaps, unintentionally hallow.

"That sounds too much like a deliberate kind of loneliness."

"And you understand what that means, don't you?" he states rather slowly; looks at her like a mess of lost little pieces, "being lonely, Miss Swan?"

"Emma," she throws at him instead; gives him her name freely because that's the only thing she can think to offer him, "just Emma."

It's a deep start.

**~~**0**~~**

Love has never been kind to her.

And Gold _was_ difficult in that sense.

Distant and invasive; contradictions weaved through personal speculations. And as particular and strange sometimes as the way he likes to engage and spin around her name.

Sheriff Swan or _Miss_ Swan and then there's Emma, Emma,_ Emma…_

It's dangerous; the ways he can say it, angle it, and use it against her. Her own name has become a refined weapon; one that already has her falling to her knees in too many ways.

Wrong, but then feels right too. It just depends on their moments; the things he wants to get from her, and always in the way his plays it. Like strings being pulled; she's forced to follow along.

And like any puppet being drawn; she can only believe it's by choice.

**~~**0**~~**

Emma's all alone once more.

Not such an uncommon occurrence for her so it doesn't really bother her at all. But she finds that she's still in his bed long after it's over, and he's left her there, and now she's not quite sure what to do with herself.

She wanted to stay.

So Emma considers leaving instead, and nearly does so in haste.

But Gold appears right then, as if summoned along by her sudden desperation, and promptly detains her from fleeing the scene.

"You stayed." He said mildly, while lewdly admiring the sight of her wrapped so timidly and awkwardly in one of his thinly layered satin sheets.

"I shouldn't have," she shakes her head firmly as she searches the room for her belongings; busies herself with collecting them as fast as she can. But Emma hears, and is overtly aware of, the distinct tap of his slow and heavy movements.

"I did not expect you to," she hears Gold say. He's closer now, "I'm pleasantly surprised."

"Are you?" She can't help but ask. Emma finds herself doing that often; being nosy around him and striving to figure out his true intentions. She's always determined to know these things from him.

Gold grins for her then; tries to distract her, and tugs playfully at the fabric wound so tightly around her.

"You've never stayed before, and now I can't make sense of you at all." He admits; tone light and almost in jest.

But she takes it too seriously, "is that a good thing?"

His lips lift up further and sharpen at her prying curiosity; which somehow only makes the smile Gold gives her look a little sadder, "Would you always stay, if I asked you to?"

Emma doesn't really have an answer for that.

**~~**0**~~**

She comes to notice certain things with time. Peculiar little details that are probably more important then they appeared to be at first.

Like that Gold tends to be softer and holds a calmness in the dark; he's different, and seemingly at peace with himself only within the cover and lull of a preset darkness. And Emma finds that she's reflected the brightest in eyes when he looks at her under the thrall of that particularly blackened gaze.

It's as if he sees her in way that makes her matter, and is marveling at what he's found there. But Emma feel like he's giving her more meaning and purpose then she's ever tried to have.

She's already grown accustomed to being simple.

Yet, for some reason, Emma really wants to know what Gold saw in her in those moments.

**~~**0**~~**

"I don't want you to hate me." He says unexpectedly one stormy night as Emma lies scattered against him; absently listening to the hurried and erratic tempo of his ravished heartbeat.

"Then don't give me reason to," she tells him, and only because she knows that she could do it if provoked; despise him completely. Gold seems to be aware of that little fact as well. Better then she would think, as his simple demand would suggest.

Why else would he feel the need to ask such a thing?

And then Gold traces his finger down Emma's spine; glides it along fluidly yet with a fine purpose. As if writing upon her flesh the only answer to a deep and dark secret, "I think you would understand, in time, if I did."

"But then it wouldn't matter," she said, "because I'd already hate you. And I'm stubborn to a fault."

"I know," he nods, his smirk resigned, "still, I thought to ask."

"It's a strange request."

**~~**0**~~**

Gold tries to make her feel dizzy and blindsided too often. And Emma has never been good with emotionality; receptive or reciprocation. The back and forth of it tends to elude her clumsily.

It's a sort of dance, is what it is, but she's long since become awkward with its steps; life has only ever taught her how to trip on her own feet and stumble.

She wonders how far Gold will watch her tumble down. Because Emma can't help but know that he won't try catching her when that time does come; not unless he needs to.

In the end, he'll let her fall.

**~~**0**~~**

It doesn't take that long.

Emma's still at the hospital, and only just slain a dragon, when her cell phone rings loudly from inside her jacket pocket. She hesitates for a moment then decides to simply answer, "You've given me that reason."

"It's for the best."

Gold voice is empty, but there's honesty in that, so she doesn't hang up right then, "is it now?"

"I never did love you." She nods her head, her grip on her phone tightens; it's an involuntary response. So she's especially grateful he can't see it.

"No, I suppose you didn't." she agrees accordingly, but still listens to his prolonged silence. Finally she adds, "Or maybe you're just a liar."

There's a soft hitch like he putting together his words; trying to make them the right ones, or at least as close as can be, "and yet, sometimes, there is redemption to be found in a well placed lie. Salvation, too"

Emma supposes she agrees with that, "well then, now I hate you indefinitely."

"I'm glad for that."

One more pointlessly given but she doesn't bother calling him out on it; there's just really no need to. Instead she asked, "Where are you?"

"Far and away from you," is his blank answer. And she seriously loathes his tendency for ambiguity. Emma tries probing Gold further and more sharply because of it.

"Haven't you already done enough? What more do you have planned?"

He sighs, "another reason, I'm afraid. "

"Gold..." she tries.

"But it was fun while it lasted, don't you think?"

"Just sto-" but it's too late. He's already hung up.

And let her go.

**~~**0**~~**

Things get far too complicated after that; with the fine lines being drawn, and written in great length.

The curse has lifted. And so sides have shifted.

And admittedly, the poetic form, with his polysemous style and confusing interpretations, never did make much sense to Emma. And it's startlingly clear to her now that he just never would

Still, there's a sadness that comes in having it all be completely lost to her.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

For some reason I've gotten into my head that I need to invest way too much of my limited time on trying to get some of my unfinished stuff written and posted. I guess it's so they don't pester me relentlessly while I'm off and away wondering around Europe. So here's another story for you all. Again, this is one that's been sitting in my desktop for a little while now that I honestly hadn't thought to finish at all until I came across it today. It was mostly done but I still managed to waste an entire day at work completing it. (My boss is probably gonna be really pissed at me tom...)

Well, I hope it's at least somewhat of a good story. I'm not too sure how I feel about the end product because think I could have maybe found more to do with it but whatever; it's a done as it's gonna get now. (Unless I revise it later...who knows what my wacky mind will inspire me to do next)

But anyways, thoughts and opinions are always so lovely, and I'd actually like to know if I went too OOC in this one (I struggle with getting my Emma to feel right.)

xoxox

**I googled the meaning of the colour salmon, just FYI if its wrong.


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